


Expectations

by servantofclio



Series: Rory and Simon Trevelyan [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: Dorian isn't sure what the Inquisitor expects.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Series: Rory and Simon Trevelyan [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/380005
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Expectations

Dorian is intimately familiar with the thrill of the chase. Clever words, lingering glances, just-so smiles that mean more than they appear. He makes himself bait in order to lay his own snares: adorn himself to best effect, place himself so the light falls advantageously, praise himself, and watch whose eyes dwell on him appreciatively. And then, banter, carefully arranged chance meetings, wine, bending toward each other like branches trained into an arch. So the dance goes in Tevinter, and he has mastered the steps.

But in Tevinter, once the quarry is seized, the thrill passes swiftly. An assignation or two, no illusions on either side, perhaps a fortnight of avoiding each other in public, and the game is done. On the rare occasions that Dorian tires of the other before the other tires of him, he can always throw himself into research for a time to put his bedmate off.

None of that has prepared him for the end of this chase: _I’m gotten_ , he’d said, though he’d been pursuer as much as pursued. A tryst at the top of the tower, and an embarrassingly revealing conversation that he rather hopes has been forgotten: that should have been enough. Or if not that, then another week or so.

Instead, months have passed, and half of Dorian’s books and clothes are now scattered about the Inquistor’s quarters. Well, the chamber is three times the size of Dorian’s own, so why shouldn’t he? But Simon also brings Dorian strong tea in the mornings, in spite of everything else he has to do, and every time Dorian notices the weight of his birthright around his neck, he must also think of the man who got it back for him, and his chest grows tight.

His previous chases have never culminated in the midst of so much chaos and imminent threats of destruction, of course. Perhaps that makes the difference: any port in a storm, after all.

Dorian knows perfectly well that on his side, at least, there is far more to it than that. But it chafes at him, the sense that one day all this must end. It would be easier, surely, to taper things off now, lay the groundwork for the parting that must inevitably come.

So he spends some nights in his own chamber, pleading his studies, and occupies himself with especially thick and forbidding tomes. Other men would take the hint, or become bored. Simon, instead, continues to stop by Dorian’s place in the library twice a day, inquires what Dorian is reading, and gives every sign of being interested in the answers.

“You are so dependable,” Dorian bursts out on the third day of this conduct. “It’s quite dull, really.”

Simon blinks, deliberately, and raises an eyebrow. “Dull?”

“Yes! Here you are every day, when I know you have more important things to do.”

The eyebrow stays up, as Simon tilts his head. “So you... _don’t_ want me to stop by and talk to you?”

‘I’m busy, that’s all,” Dorian says with an airy wave, slouching in his chair as if it will ward off that too-penetrating gaze. “I’m busy, you’re busy, we needn’t pretend otherwise.”

Simon’s eyes narrow. He steps closer. In spite of himself, Dorian tenses and holds his breath; on the inhale, he catches the scent of soap and leather that Simon always carries with him.

Simon says, “You are obviously addled, cooped up with these musty things all day.” He flicks his fingers at the pile of volumes they dredged out of a half-ruined manor somewhere. “Come out and get some fresh air with me.”

If he wants to end things here, Dorian should refuse. Instead, his foolish heart betrays him. He huffs a sigh and sets his book aside. “Well, if you insist...”

“I do,” Simon says. “Inquisitorially, if I must.”

He says it lightly, and Dorian laughs in spite of himself. He follows Simon out to the ramparts, where the air cuts crisp and cool even in full sun. The mountains spread out around them, vast and serene, and the wind ruffles Simon’s hair as he turns.

“All right, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” Dorian says.

“What’s gotten into you, then, because I was under the impression you enjoyed my company?”

His tone is tart, but also stung. That hint of hurt feelings makes Dorian’s traitor heart jump and wrings sincerity from his tongue. “Of course I do.”

Simon lets out a breath, and his shoulders drop a little. “Then what?”

“It’s nothing.”

Simon says nothing, and Dorian sighs as the silence stretches. He has to look away, fixing his eyes on the horizon. “It’s only – I know we’ve been at this for some time now, and...” He trails off. Words seldom fail him, but he doesn’t wish to put words to these fears.

“I thought we’ve talked about this,” Simon says after a moment.

 _More_. Dorian hasn’t forgotten, but those words will only make it harder when the time comes to part. “People change their minds,” he says.

“I’m not too dependable and dull for that?”

Dorian winces at his own words tossed back to him, as serves him right. Dull is certainly not the word for the man who fought a giant Avvar in single combat, who charms the most jaded Orlesians, who acts as the Inquisition’s first battering ram and somehow became their rock.

“Dorian.” Simon touches his arm lightly. “I care for you a great deal, I thought you knew that.”

He does. Oh, he does. He just can’t always make himself believe that it’ll be enough. “This will all end sometime,” Dorian says, “and I don’t know what you expect for... after.” _For us_ , he almost said.

Simon snorts. “I have to say _after_ is very far from my mind. I can’t see an end to the Inquisition’s work just yet.”

“Well...” Dorian gathers himself, about to say something appropriately jovial to settle the mood.

Simon squeezes his arm, stopping him cold. “And I want you with me. If you’re willing, of course.”

He’s close enough Dorian can count every one of the spray of freckles Simon denies exists, eyes steady and intent, and Dorian’s lost, has been nearly since Simon burst into Redcliffe’s chantry.

“Willing,” he scoffs, and kisses him hard, trying to pour into it all the things he can’t bring himself to say.


End file.
